The Pull of My Heart to Yours
by AsteraceaeBlue
Summary: Her home had been his safe harbor and they had never spoken of what transpired in the little three-room flat. They were moments between her longing and his longing, reminding them constantly that forces of attraction are not easily fought. S3 fillers and post-HLV
1. Chapter 1

**Thank you to my fabulous beta, MizJoely!**

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When Sherlock Holmes crossed blithely back into the land of the living two years after taking a swan dive off of St. Bart's roof, the speculation on the players involved swirled like a hurricane. In the more intimate circles, the name of one of Bart's most talented and inconspicuous handlers of the dead was spoken with rapt curiosity and mild astonishment. Molly Hooper kept her head down and her lips tightly sealed when the flutterings of gossip reached her ears, even when it teased at the idea that her inclusion in his plight had led to a decidedly less platonic relationship. Especially when it hinted at that.

Because it was true.

She certainly hadn't meant for it to happen.

After being the one to declare him dead, she'd harbored him in her flat for a total of one night after his fall, during which he saw to plans that she was not included in. Her living room exploded with papers, maps, and laptops for that night, and when she finally realized he was trying his hardest to shield her from his plans she walked quietly into her bedroom and shut the door. Sleep was next to impossible, so she simply lay in bed, listening to him rustling around on the other side of the door.

Then, sometime around two in the morning, he walked into her bedroom. If she hadn't been awake, leaning against her headboard and worrying the nail of her thumb, she wasn't sure he would have stayed. Knowing him, though, he likely expected her to be awake. He stared at her for a long moment with an expression she knew well: tired, worn, raw to everything. The regular coif of his hair had fallen to disheveled strands, his shirt hung loose from his trousers, and he looked like he needed nothing less than a miracle from on high to put him back together.

He may have been flippant about what he had done during the daylight, but night had clearly brought everything into sharp focus.

She waited.

The obvious desperation he showed for some sort of contact outweighed the awkward way he came to her bed, nearly crawling on hands and knees to reach her. The thud of her heart left her dizzy and it wasn't simply because he was in her bed. It scared her to see him so exposed. She enfolded him in her arms like a child, smoothing a hand over his hair as he buried his face in her shoulder, body trembling with leftover adrenaline and emotion. Running on pure comfort mode, she pressed her lips to his brow in a chaste kiss, followed by another as the trembling subsided. When he shifted, her hand slipped along his jaw to hold him in place as she pressed one final kiss to his cheek.

That was all she'd intended.

She'd never expected the sudden turn of his head, his own hand landing at the base of her neck to prevent her escape, his mouth hungrily seeking hers. There were a few dozen scenarios in her box of Sherlock fantasies that detailed how their first kiss would be. Desperately clinging to the last friend he had left in the world had never been among them and the only thing she could think, over and over, was, _I'm kissing a dead man_.

For the very reason that she couldn't sort out if that thought was for his present state or some awful premonition, she allowed it all to happen. The part of her that screamed, _This is twenty layers of wrong!_ was told to stuff it. She needed it – needed him. Needed to know that he was alive, so very alive, in a way he never allowed himself to be.

It was fevered and clumsy and wonderful and he proved he was very much alive. Twice.

When he lingered in her bed, an arm wrapped firmly around her waist as she lay draped across his chest, listening to the beat of his heart, she grew concerned that she had distracted him. She knew what he was up against and she would be damned if he faltered now just because she wanted one self-indulgent night with him.

"Don't you have plans to make?" she asked.

"Everything that can be done at the moment has been taken care of," he said.

"You should go if you need to."

"You don't want me to stay?"

"But you have to go," she said, snuggling closer into him.

"Ask me."

"Sherlock…"

"Just ask me, Molly."

She swallowed and peered up at him.

"Stay?"

She could feel him contemplating the benefits of losing days in her bed; not dealing with the reality of what he'd done. It would be the easiest diversion in the world, but he would come around quickly and she worried that when he did he would resent her for the lost time. That was something she could not deal with, even if he didn't really mean it. Not on top of the grief she would be facing from John and everyone else.

She would kick him in the arse to get him to leave if she had to.

Fortunately, it did not come to that. As the grey dawn crept in, he stirred and disappeared into her bathroom, emerging some ten minutes later dressed in baggy, ratty clothes and looking like he was already mentally calculating his first move against his enemies. She walked him to the door and he stared down at her.

"I took advantage," he stated, sure he had assessed his actions correctly.

"You did not," she said firmly. "Don't think it."

"I'm…not sure this will happen again."

She tried not to hear the more fatalistic reasons behind his words. Though, the less fatalistic reasons were not all that pleasant either.

"Tell you what – you worry about taking down a criminal network for a bit. Then we'll see where we are," she said with a smile she only half felt.

Taking firm hold of the front of his zippy, she stood herself on tiptoe and pressed her mouth to his, solidifying the memory of his kiss. He caught her around the waist when she began to pull away, keeping her millimeters from him.

"Thank you, Molly," he said with the emphatic tone of someone who's just learned new manners and wants to show the talent off.

He found little ways to let her know he was alive, usually through his homeless network or, occasionally, Mycroft. Curt notes slipped under the door of her flat left her bemused but happy.

_The Detweiler case – it wasn't drowning, don't let Lestrade close that one_

_Don't work with Whittle, he contaminates his post-mortems and pushes blame onto others_

How he knew the workings of her life, she never quite figured out. After half a year, when the fuss of his demise had died down and people were beginning to heal and move on with the passage of time, she started receiving different sorts of notes.

_Your bed was warm_

_I wanted to stay_

These almost broke her heart. Because she had always been far too empathetic to the plight of anyone who was less than happy, her mind conjured images of him shivering in some dank room in St. Petersburg or Kabul or some other harsh, unfriendly place and it made her fret in a way he would have sneered at. The worst part was having no way to respond. She spent hours trying to spot the source of these deliveries to no avail. The one time she fell in the presence of Mycroft during a particularly snarled political case at Bart's, she'd flustered herself attempting to come up with some clever code phrase to deliver to him; something, anything to pass on to Sherlock.

She needn't have bothered.

"Miss Hooper, you are doing well?" he asked her upon leaving the morgue.

"Yes," she said with a sigh of relief.

"It's been noted," Mycroft said with a gentle raise of his eyebrows.

Not a month after that encounter, after a typically trying Monday, she returned home from her shift at Bart's to find all the lights in her flat on, a mess of takeaway in the kitchen, and several articles of clothing dropped on the floor outside her room.

She smiled, shaking her head as she hung her coat up and placed her bag on the table, knowing exactly what she was about to find in her bedroom.

It did not stop her heart from pounding as she approached the doorway.

There were no words to describe the relief and happiness that filled her as Molly took in the sight of Sherlock Holmes sprawled out in her bed, face smushed down into a pillow. The blanket and sheets were bunched at his waist, leaving his bare back exposed and her heart in her throat. His hair was longer, wilder. He seemed uninjured… thank God. She wanted to go forward, to lay her body down next to his, her hands itching to run along his skin and reassure herself that he was really there. But she couldn't bring herself to disturb him.

Moving quietly as she could, Molly collected her pyjamas and pulled the door almost shut. She fed Toby and helped herself to the leftovers in the kitchen before curling up on her sofa, wasting time on her laptop until she was too tired to wait for a sign of consciousness from her room. She was thankful her bathroom was separate from her bedroom, leaving her free to get ready for bed without worrying about disturbing Sherlock. She grabbed her glasses from the counter and shut off the light, padding out into the living room and pulling the afghan from the back of her sofa. With one more glance towards her bedroom, she settled into the cushions and waited for sleep.

The scent of coffee was probably what woke him the next morning. Molly was enjoying her first cup, leaning against the counter, still in her pyjamas, and reading the morning newspaper when he nearly staggered out of her room. Naturally, he hadn't bothered to put on a shirt and his pyjama trousers hung low on his hips. He took one look at the sofa on his way to the kitchen and fixed her with a stare that held a multitude of opinions.

"You didn't need to sleep on your sofa."

God, she had missed his voice. Deep and precise, like every word was important. She smiled at him.

"Could hardly have slept on the bed, you were taking up most of it," she said.

Sherlock nodded, looking unsurprised to find out that he took up so much space. He gestured towards her face.

"New glasses?"

"Toby got his paws on the last pair," she said. "Scratched the lenses."

He smiled a bit at that. Her fingers tightened on the newspaper as silence descended on the room and he continued to stare at her. She bit her lip holding back the dozens of questions she had about what he had been up to, where he had been… was he all right? He looked fine. More than fine. But Sherlock Holmes was a master at hiding his own pain and she desperately wanted to know for sure.

Just when she thought she would succumb to those questions, he stepped forward. Her breath hitched as he slowly made his way to stand directly in front of her, reaching up and pulling the paper from her hands, tossing it on the counter. His arms enveloped her and he kissed along her temple, her brow, ghosting against the edge of her mouth before claiming it fully.

"I wasn't sure you would want…" she sighed into his kiss.

"I couldn't stop thinking about…"

"Neither could I."

"Am I taking advantage?"

"Not a sodding bit."

He laughed, a short, low laugh, and it sounded so strange, like he hadn't laughed in ages and was out of practice.

He knew her better this time, more attuned to her body and her reactions. He took his time, and she suspected it was because there was no ticking clock hanging over their heads or the risk of delaying a seemingly impossible task. She saw stars a few times, that was certain, and if his incoherent pleading was any indication, so did he.

She cradled him as they lay in bed, propped against the headboard and chin atop his dark locks, her arms wrapped around his chest and held in place by his own when his hand wasn't drawing a line along her leg. He asked her about work until there were no corpses left to discuss and his curiosity could no longer be stemmed when it came to more serious matters.

"John?" he said softly.

"Hasn't Mycroft been keeping you in the loop?"

"I want to hear it from you. He leaves out details he doesn't think are important."

"He's started working at another practice. Pretty serious these days, but that's to be expected."

"It's been a year," Sherlock said with a hint of confusion.

"He misses you terribly," she reasoned, thinking of her own time without him and amplifying it one hundred times to even brush John's pain level. "Mary's helped a lot."

"The nurse?"

"Mhmm. Smart as a whip," she told him with a smirk. "I think she scares him a bit."

"Good. He does better with someone challenging him."

She wanted to ask if he ever thought of her that way – his challenge, his match. Even if it only started when it was too late to make its way into their normal lives.

"Greg finally escaped desk duty," she said instead.

"Who?"

"Lestrade," she said with a roll of her eyes. "Detective Inspector. A title he might have back before the year is out."

"Oh."

"Spends a lot of time at Bart's, actually," she said thoughtfully, absently stroking his side with her fingertips. "I think he wants to keep sharp when it comes to bodies."

Sherlock hummed noncommittally at this, tightening his hold on her.

"I pop in on Mrs. Hudson every once in a while," she went on. "She hasn't let your flat. It's almost the same. Found a student for the basement, though. Bit of a lookie-loo, I think, when I met him. But really, who wasn't curious those first few months? God, it's strange, talking about your death with you right here. But she's all right…solid as a rock, you know? Flutters around me like a mother hen, keeps asking me why I haven't found myself a decent bloke to be with."

"Why haven't you?"

She was floored by his question. Laying in her bed, his body tucked between her legs and leaning against her bare breasts, and he asked her why she wasn't seeing anyone.

"Well, because…you."

Brilliant. She had a sixty page thesis on the deterioration of human flesh and tissue under exposure to pathogens, several published journal articles, and she couldn't articulate that he was the reason she wasn't moving on.

"Me?"

"Yes, you," she reiterated, finding her voice. "How would it look, exactly, if I had a man over and there was a note waiting for me that said 'I miss your arms?'"

"I would have stopped if that were the case," he said, matter of fact.

"You would just give up on me," she said, her tone growing cold.

"Don't presume to deduce my actions, Molly," he said firmly. "I told you I wasn't sure this could continue. It might be better for you to find someone else."

"And don't presume to deduce what is best for my life," she returned, suddenly wishing they weren't in quite so intimate a position.

In answer to her thought, he sat up and turned to face her, bracing his weight on either side of her hips.

"I cannot be what is best for your life," he said seriously.

"Why don't you let me decide that for myself," she said with every ounce of conviction she could summon.

He glared at her and she wasn't sure if he was irritated at her or himself for letting things get so involved, so tangled.

He stayed for two more days, though she worked nights and slept on the sofa when he moodily took over her bedroom, resting and plotting his next move. It was much easier for him to use the room than for her to stay locked away, unable to access her kitchen, her bathroom, or her living room and all her reading material and home office.

On Thursday, she woke in the late afternoon light to find a note on the coffee table in front of her.

_Didn't want to wake you. Goodbye, Molly_.

Amazingly, she was not sad. She'd seen how well he was doing, how utterly determined he was to best Moriarty's network and return triumphant to London. It took away some of her worry.

The short time with him had also accomplished something she had at one time thought impossible – it lessened her ache for him. She didn't love him any less; she cared just as deeply as she ever had, perhaps even more so. But something had shifted, even before he had come to her for help in faking his death. He was suddenly more tangible, no longer quite the enigmatic being that had fascinated and flustered her for so long.

And she knew she was not just a convenience to him, not just a human asset to be called upon when he needed something. A new relationship was forged and solidified, but she still recognized his priorities to his work.

Two days later, she met Tom.

If she had been anywhere else in her relationship with Sherlock, she might not have noticed this awkward, kind man who had been invited to the pub by one of her friends. She certainly would not have paid any mind to him the next weekend when they all reconvened again for drinks and he had made sure to sit next to her, asking about her job and her likes and dislikes, listening intently to her answers. No, she would have taken one look at this man with his blue eyes and dark, curling hair and her heart would have lurched for someone who was not there. But she looked at him and saw…Tom.

Tom, who had a good job as an accountant and laughed at her off-color jokes and took three weeks to ask her on a proper date. Who fit her taste for tall, dark, and adorable.

She found herself genuinely smitten and it took nearly a month to realize that the notes had stopped. True to her nature, she worried more that she had hurt him rather than about her own feelings. It was a worry that would not be addressed for another year.

Molly had no indication that her life was about lurch back onto its old path when she plodded down the hall to the women's locker room, rubbing at a shoulder that was sore from a long day. She still wasn't used to thinking about the little failures of her muscles and joints, always starting a bit when the phrase "I'm getting old" popped into her mind. Already planning for ibuprofen and a large glass of water when she got home, she practically slammed into her locker door when she saw the reflection of the man standing behind her. He smiled at her when she spun around and the corner of her mouth turned up immediately.

"Hello, Molly," he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly with his smile.

"Hi," she said, suddenly slightly giddy and timid. They stared at each other stupidly for a few moments before she found her voice again. "Are you back? For good?"

He nodded and her heart swelled with relief. Her eyes drifted down to the cut on his lip and her brow pulled in concern.

"You've seen John, then?" she asked.

"Yes."

"How'd that go?"

"Oh, good, yes, very good," he said, just shy of rolling his eyes and she smirked.

"You can hardly blame him" she said gently, stepping forward and peering up at him. "Though I do wish he hadn't been so brutish."

At this, she reached up and softly touched her fingers to the edge of his mouth, instinctively wanting to assess his injury. He went still and the air suddenly crackled with a year of forgetting just what his presence did to her.

Her mobile chimed in her locker and she jolted back, her hands shaking a bit at her sides as the personalized tone reminded her that she had one very good reason not to be standing so close to Sherlock. _Tom_. It scared the living daylights out of her that in one minute her mind had gone completely blank of the man who had asked her to marry him not two weeks prior.

Wasn't the timing in life just fantastic sometimes?

The abrupt movement seemed to startle Sherlock and he shuffled backwards a step or two, looking somewhat rejected.

"I should be going," he said. "Haven't seen Baker Street in two years, it'll be nice to know for sure that Mrs. Hudson hasn't utterly ruined my organization." Molly raised an eyebrow and he gave her a challenging look. "I have a method."

She giggled and looked down, a thought creeping into her mind as she stared at his polished shoes.

"You haven't been home yet?" she asked.

"No," he replied. "Just seen John."

If it dawned on him why she asked, she didn't find out. He turned and swept out of the room the moment he stopped talking, leaving her with nothing left to do but hang up her lab coat, slip her ring back onto her finger, and try not to think constantly about the fact that he came to see her immediately after John.

Tom did not seem to notice her distraction when she met him for dinner, though he looked disappointed when she claimed exhaustion at the end of the meal and hinted heavily that she wanted to go home alone. Too much Sherlock on her mind would have led to guilt-ridden sex and she'd successfully focused purely on Tom every other time up until that point. Successfully and without effort and she planned to keep it that way.

Of course, Sherlock couldn't be counted on to be helpful in that area at all. Just as she curled up on the couch to read herself into sleepiness, comfy in her sweatpants and thermal shirt, the knock at the door came. She thought about not answering, pretending not to be home. She thought about what would happen if Tom decided to let himself in after all and found him there. She thought about the fact that his best friend in all the world had bloodied his lip and his nose and shut him out…

Moving quickly, she pulled out the lab reports she had meant to type up the day before and started her laptop, hoping the staging looked at least somewhat convincing. Then she answered the door.

"Sorry," she said with a smile. "In the middle of some work."

He nodded, looking unsurprised to have disturbed her. He looked tired and he gave up all pretense of why he was there when he spoke.

"Do you mind if I…rest here. For a few hours."

Her heart sank for him momentarily.

"Don't tell me Mrs. Hudson - "

"Oh, no," he said quickly. "She was embarrassingly happy…after she stopped screaming. The flat is just…a bit of a mess. Not habitable at all until it's had a proper dusting, sheets are in a deplorable condition."

"You left her to do all that by herself?" she asked, incredulous. Sherlock frowned at her.

"She hates when I help. Says I just get underfoot." He looked at Molly expectantly and her heart thudded, warring with herself about what to do. "You don't have to…"

"No, it's okay," she said hurriedly and found herself stepping aside to let him in. "I just, um, I've got to get these reports done before tomorrow, so I'll just be out here. Help yourself to anything and the…well, you know where the bedroom is."

She said it with a smile and a mind flooded with memories. Feeling her cheeks grow hot, she turned away and headed back to the sofa before he could say anything. She tried to focus on the screen of her computer as he wandered slowly into her room and shut the door.

Fiddling subconsciously with the ring on her finger, she realized he still hadn't said a thing about it and she had no idea how that made her feel.


	2. Chapter 2

**Holy cow, the feedback on this story was overwhelming and so wonderful! Thank you everyone ever! I'm still going to be exploring subtext for the episodes for a few more chapters before moving on to post-season material, so hang in there (I promise it will get better for Sherlock and Molly, MizJoely, I PROMISE!)**

**For your listening consideration: "Dust to Dust" by The Civil Wars**

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What the hell was wrong with everyone?

Mycroft letting him get tortured, spouting on about goldfish and who knew what else.

John engaged and inexplicably not happy to see him. Moved out of Baker Street.

Lestrade smoking again.

Molly engaged. Or at least all signs pointed in that direction.

Had a single thing not remained unchanged in the last two years?

Despite the warm welcome from Mrs. Hudson and the homey spread of breakfast she had ready for him in the morning, the flat felt all wrong without John. Mycroft managed to overstay his welcome and Sherlock missed the way John could knock him down off his high horse in one sentence.

He certainly hadn't been shy about letting Sherlock know how he felt about being lied to for two years. His nose was still tender and he felt at a loss as to what more he could do to explain himself. The right people had been trusted with the information, nothing could convince him otherwise. Telling John would have put too much at risk.

However, now he wouldn't answer Sherlock and there were cases to be solved. He had wasted no time in hacking John's email and found that his death had not stopped people from seeking out help from 221B. Some were recent enough to take on – add those to Lestrade's call and he had more than enough to whet his appetite for the day.

The answer to the conundrum of having no assistant came to his mind immediately, but he let it roll around for a time, contemplating the intelligence of such a choice.

He'd left her asleep on the couch before dawn. He knew she was not scheduled for a shift at Bart's, even if she did claim to have reports due. She would work perfectly.

But then there was the ring. No sign of it at Bart's, no doubt for safety reasons during postmortems. And that one missing item had made it impossible to know that something had changed drastically in her life. Nothing else had shown. He knew she'd met someone shortly after his last visit to her flat, although not until long after the stage he would have been able to do something to deter her, if he had wished. It was convenient, he supposed, that the news would come after weeks of struggling not to contact her, deciding they – he – had let things get to far with no promise of a satisfying ending. He was therefore surprised she hadn't shown more signs of the seriousness of the relationship. But her flat…that had peeled back the wrappings on all the mysteries: the ring on her finger, the well-used pair of chairs at her table, a second brand of coffee on the counter, extra toothbrush in the bathroom, the scent of men's aftershave on the pillow that was not on her side.

She'd hesitated to let him in when he thought she would have welcomed him back and now he knew why. He'd curled into her pillow and tried to focus solely on her perfume, blocking out any evidence that showed his place had been taken.

But if Sherlock was going to concede his place in her life, he needed to know for certain that she was happy – and that she knew he wanted her to be. She had done so much for him, after all.

What better way to accomplish that than offer her a day with him, solving crimes? Two birds with one stone, as the saying went.

He'd not expected her to think he was asking her to dinner. Never expected to have such a good time with her, to see her so relaxed and…funny. It was an entirely different dynamic than with John, though of course his friend's voice managed to push its way into his mind, sarcastic and cheeky where Molly was frank and eager to please, if a bit quiet. He'd caught her looking at him, her eyes glossed over while he postulated ideas about the disappearance of the man in the train car. There was a moment of annoyance at that; he did need someone to be with him on cases and help him reason. With her heart settled on someone else, he had hoped that they could slip into an easy friendship; a suitable working rapport. He'd not been immune to loss of focus during the day either, as John's voice had none too subtly questioned Sherlock's fixation on Molly's ring. They were trying too hard, both of them, to maintain a certain distance.

Perhaps one last ditch effort to find out just how much of her personal time she was willing to spend with him…

An invitation for fish and chips.

Turned down. No – not turned down, ignored altogether.

Trying sincerely to let her know he appreciated everything she had done for him; that she meant the world to him. Listening to her nervous babble about her fiancé and trying not to feel like the biggest prick on earth for being the reason she had to defend the where, how, and why of her relationship.

Wishing her happiness (he really did) and making a joke about sociopaths that didn't feel a bit like a joke as it slipped from his mouth.

Standing and staring at each other and knowing without a doubt that their minds were replaying the same memories, thinking of the same 'what if's.'

But he could see she was closed off, now; frightened that he would upset the balance she had carefully constructed in her life over the last year. She was no longer his, if she ever really had been.

He leaned down to place a kiss on her cheek, entirely impulsive and wanting one final token of what they had had, and caught the edge of her mouth. Turning away and making a hasty retreat from the building was the only thing keeping him from losing to feelings that had no business in his mind in the first place.

The chip shop was warm and smelled deliciously of fry oil and batter, making him grateful to be back in London. The comfort of the familiar food was needed. He liked the way it made him feel at home.

His eyes wandered around the tiny shop while he stood in the queue, watching those surrounding him. A group of teenagers were laughing hysterically at the corner table, seemingly at nothing. An elderly couple ate quietly near the window, occasionally looking out onto the street or at each other. A mother sat with her toddler on her lap, feeding her cooled bites of battered cod and catching the bits that didn't stay in her daughter's mouth. The little girl had a handful of her mother's jumper bunched in her tiny fist, her eyes focused intently on the food being delivered to her.

_Goldfish_.

Mycroft may never have seen the point in ordinary people, removing himself from society at large, but Sherlock had been fortunate (or unfortunate, he still wasn't sure which) to realize that the ordinary could turn out to be quite the opposite at times. He'd always been taught that intelligence set him apart, made him the fodder for other people's jokes and jealousy when they were too stupid to understand genius. That it was better to be 'other' and despise the idea of connections. One extraordinary friendship had shown him just how ridiculous isolation was.

Two years had been too long, he saw that now. He'd dawdled, enjoying showing off his talents in every new city and country he stepped foot in and never being found out. Coming back to London and expecting everything to be the same had been naïve, to say the very least. Of course things would change, why wouldn't they? Life was rarely stagnant. Life moved, evolved, was pushed to change and react to the forces set upon it.

But to have John shut him out, to pull away completely, was a reaction that Sherlock was not prepared for. He could only hope that Mary was successful in her efforts to change John's mind. Until then, he relied on his own arrogance to convince himself that John would eventually come to his senses and realize that he really did miss life with Sherlock. John was too stubborn for his own good sometimes, but he would, in all likelihood, come round, as Mary promised. He liked the woman. Molly had been right, she was entirely perfect for John. He wouldn't mind having her around.

Now Molly…she was off limits. The flicker of 'something more' that had been stoked was gone and that was an undeniable truth he had to accept. She hadn't waited for him, and could he blame her? He'd clawed his way into her bed like a frightened stray, waiting until the eleventh hour to comprehend that his heart could want and that it would want her. The first woman to show him real love, to understand him, and naturally he'd gone about accepting it all wrong. He would have done all of it wrong, had they the chance, he was sure.

What he had told her remained the best advice – it was better that she found someone else.

Those thoughts were still swirling in his mind when he heard the panicked knocking downstairs at Baker Street, Mary's voice carrying up the stairwell. He deciphered the code on her phone almost instantly and suddenly his only thought was that John was in danger and needed his help.

* * *

Dinner?

_Dinner?_

_Good god, Molly Hooper, could you have been any more dense?_

Even if she wasn't expecting a grand romantic gesture, even if she was ready to distance herself a bit, she had still been deluded enough to think that Sherlock Holmes would act like a normal human being and they would sit down at a table in a restaurant and hash out their relationship like regular adults. He would of course express regret for losing her to someone else and she would smile fondly and say she hoped they could still be friends, sure to show how well she was doing. It would go so much smoother than his sudden appearance at both Bart's and her flat the day before. She would at least remember to bring up Tom.

But no, there was no dinner intended, no chance to talk. He wanted an assistant, a replacement for John.

She was flattered, truthfully, that he had called upon her to fill the post. Sherlock didn't trust just anyone to help him and if she was reading the situation properly he actually seemed like he wanted the company. Her company.

It was a day filled with diligent note taking, feeling five steps behind him on almost every case, and enduring what John had christened The Look on at least one occasion (really, she was just as surprised as the jilted daughter to find out the stepfather had been tricking her). Sitting in Baker Street and watching him solve cases in minutes left her feeling more like a spectator than an assistant, but it afforded her the opportunity to see that Sherlock had indeed grown in his humanity. He actually expressed outrage for personal injustices to his clients now.

She felt much more comfortable when they left the flat – there were bodies to examine and evidence to look at, areas she excelled in. He was kind to her, considerate, and if it hadn't been for the burning embarrassment of being called John in front of Greg, the 'Ripper' case would have been truly enjoyable.

And then there was the train flat.

By the time they arrived at the quirky little home, they were having fun. Sherlock had laughed the whole way over in the cab about Greg being fooled by a museum display and she could barely contain her own amusement. She was still giggly when they rang the bell at the flat and were met with the whimsical sounds of 'Mind the gap.'

They exchanged plenty of looks, amusements.

They flirted. She would be a liar if she called it anything else.

She got lost watching him, watching his mind turn as information clicked into place and the case instantly became the mystery he wanted to solve. And she remembered why she was in love with him.

And that's when the day stopped being about replacing John and she realized that it probably never had been.

The game of avoidance they played in the stairwell was extraordinary. While she'd been ready to enjoy dinner with him earlier in the day, the idea of grabbing chips with him, possibly going back to Baker Street afterwards…it was exceedingly dangerous territory. He was trying to extend their time together and if she was a weaker person she might have let him.

But Molly wasn't a cheater. She never had been and she certainly wouldn't start just because Sherlock Holmes seemed to be testing the solidness of her relationship with Tom.

He took the hint easily enough and she even got a proper thank you after two years, as well as a massive reminder that her place in his life had been (and was still) far greater than anyone, including herself, had recognized.

The next thing she knew, he was congratulating her on her engagement and she was spewing the most mundane facts about Tom, trying too hard to show that he was the normal man everyone always said she deserved. Leave it to Sherlock to point out how inconsistent that was to her usual taste in men.

When he stepped towards her, so reminiscent of that night in Bart's and every moment in her flat that ended with her in his arms, she felt genuine panic.

_He wouldn't dare…he wouldn't, not here, not now, not now that he knows I've got someone else…_

The relief when his kiss landed at the very corner of her mouth, toeing the line of innocent, did nothing to dim the cold rush of disappointment that swept over her. She felt awful. A part of her had desperately wanted it to be more than that.

Continuing to solve crimes with him would have been the most disastrous idea in the world.

She met Tom for dinner that night at their favorite Thai restaurant and he asked all about her day as they waited for their food, ever the dutiful and interested boyfriend. He'd known she was going to spend the day at crime scenes – hiding her plans from him once Sherlock had invited her made her feel as though she were sneaking around and she'd immediately sent off a text.

"So," Tom started, all wide-eyed and enthusiastic. "Out in the field today? Not often the Yard asks you to do that."

"Yeah," Molly said, fiddling with her napkin. "Well, Sherlock's not exactly the Yard."

"I still can't believe he's really alive," he said, smiling as he sat back and crossed his arms over his chest, looking thoroughly fascinated by it all. "He really pulled the wool over everyone, didn't he?"

"Certainly did."

"Bet you're relieved he's not dead, eh? Must be nice to know your friend is still alive after all," Tom smiled again. "Did he tell you how he did it?"

"Erm, no," Molly muttered, grateful that she had a good reason to change the subject. She leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table. "Look, Tom, you're…probably going to have to meet him at some point. Maybe soon. We are very much in the same circle, you see."

Tom shrugged.

"Not much of a problem, it'd be interesting to meet him."

"Yeah." Molly bit her lip. "I just want to warn you…he's not always the most tactful person in the world…"

* * *

Days later, Molly led Tom by the hand to the familiar black door, letting them in as she was accustomed to doing every time she came to the flat. Up the dark stairwell, the old wood groaning under their feet with every step. She popped her head into 221B and saw that everyone was already gathered, champagne being passed around and all sorted with John and Sherlock. She hadn't really meant to make an entrance, but it worked all the same. The chance to make sure everyone knew she was officially engaged was perfect.

Introductions were made and the group looked sufficiently surprised to see her with someone. Or perhaps it was that she brought him to Baker Street, feeding him straight to Sherlock for scrutiny, that had everyone so amazed.

Either way, when Sherlock stepped forward to meet him, his eyes widened and it looked like Tom was the last thing he ever expected to see.

Molly waited, her hands clenching nervously.

To her absolute astonishment, Sherlock merely extended his hand, took Tom's, shook it once, and stepped out of the room with John on his heels.

She smiled sheepishly at Greg, honestly having expected more of a spectacle. Jim had not been the first, nor the only, man that Sherlock felt the need to find fault with. Not that she brought many men around; most of his deductions had been based on her bearing without setting eyes on her dates. He was never wrong.

It made her wonder – did he see nothing wrong, or was he just not telling her? She was glad for the consideration to her feelings and those of Tom if the latter was the case. Yet…she'd grown to trust his honesty and if something was wrong she would rather know.

_Nothing wrong, then_, she thought. That was the most comfortable conclusion.

"So, um…Is it serious, you two?" Greg asked as Tom went to collect a flute of champagne.

"Yeah," she said brightly. "I've moved on."

* * *

"Did you…"

"Not saying a word."

"Yeah. Best not."

Unbelievable. The one time he'd promised himself he would be polite and keep the deductions to himself and she had to walk in with a poor copy. She had to know. Did she know? She _had_ to! Molly wasn't that oblivious.

Most people had a type. Perhaps Molly just…had a very specific type. Very.

He brushed the thoughts aside as he prepared to meet the press, going over all the details he had decided to share with the world.

Fortunately, Molly and Tom decided to keep the visit brief and Sherlock was only subjected to a few minutes with them when he returned upstairs after the press interview. He was disappointed to find no real flaws with the man other than the obvious, glaring resemblance. He watched them walk out the door, Molly holding tightly to this boring, normal man's hand and smiling sidelong at him. Off to live a boring, normal life, buy a house, raise 2.5 children and attend school functions. All very bromidic.

Blinking rapidly, he looked away from the door.

She would hate it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Wow, thank you guys all so much for the reviews and the follows!**

**As always, thank you to MizJoely who keeps me on track and always manages to decipher my writing when my brain says, "English? Grammar? What's that exactly?"**

* * *

It was amazing how quickly things went right back to how they had always been, with the odd difference here and there. Like a stream retreating to its usual flow after the swell of a flood, life found its fit and continued steadily. Cases interspersed with boredom, boredom combatted by experiments. Mary was more than accommodating with Sherlock's need for John's assistance and company, even if Baker Street was unnaturally empty at the end of the day.

He still begged body parts off of Molly when nothing interesting was on. He was grateful that their arrangement, their routine, at Bart's was unchanged. It was comfortable. He often found himself there more than he needed to be, happy to talk with her or just sit in silence while they worked.

So it was perfectly natural to go to her for help with the stag night when the need arose. Somewhere in his memory he recalled her saying she went to the pub on weekends. She had more experience than he did in that area, and he had always been meticulous in consulting experts in areas outside his normal skills.

He'd counted on her enthusiasm for the theme. What he hadn't counted on were the sudden deductions he found himself making.

He put his foot in his mouth, as usual, and she was becoming entirely too talented at calling him on it; staring at him when he realized he had inadvertently insulted her, implying she drank. He tried to cover the mistake, looking for something about her that he could praise without reverting to old habits of artificial compliments. Instant regret hit him as his eyes scanned her.

New hairstyle – very flattering and trying it out because she was feeling confident. Previous comments on hairstyles were connected to a time in their relationship he would rather not bring up, so that was out.

Same clothing style, so not feeling pressured to change who she was or try something new.

Very relaxed, very happy, skin virtually glowing, tension gone from the body, possible increase in cortisone levels –

Oh god, she had had sex that morning.

It hit him like ice water and he struggled to hold his reaction in and get the right word out.

Well. She looked well, that should do it.

And of course she would confirm his deduction, making sure he knew Tom was not only psychologically normal but very not gay. His mind actually skidded to a halt at her cheerful declaration. Fortunately, he got back on track within moments, listening to her sage advice about inebriated behavior.

There was a variable she had not included in their calculations, however: John Watson.

The wasted case opportunity and the headache from hell were his two largest annoyances until he started going through his text messages.

_Was it godd? -Sh_

_What?_

_You seemed vry hqppy, was it good? -S_

_Was what good? -M_

_The sex! The lotsof sex you are having -S_

_Molly -S_

_Molly! -S_

_Did you decide not to follow the plan for pacing? -M_

_My lab worth had always been perfection, if there was n error it was on your end -S_

_Dammit, lab work -S_

_Call a cab, Sherlock, you're drunk and I would guess John is too -M_

_You okay? -M_

_Please let me know you're okay -M_

_Never mind, I just spoke to Greg :)_

John never said a word about it so he must have had the conversation while John was in the toilets or otherwise occupied. It was a relief that he did not see Molly again until the wedding – an event at which he planned to abstain from drinking insomuch as his duties allowed.

The wedding.

The day he saw two people go through the motions of societally dictated ceremony and expensively declare their love. More importantly, he saw a family take shape. He said goodbye to life with John Watson as he knew it. It was, as many say, bittersweet. His friend was happy and in love; but he would no longer have John there at all times to be his bright spot in the day, his personal amusement and his moral compass.

The event wasn't as awful as he had feared; he'd somehow done the speech well, had a bit of fun with Janine, even solved a murder and stopped yet another from happening. He hoped that would suffice for a gift to the happy couple as he hadn't seen the point in buying them anything domestic. And really, what better wedding present could he give John than a murder investigation resolved at his own wedding? It was perfect.

It proved a nice distraction from watching Molly's relationship disintegrate before his very eyes.

Whether she knew it yet and whether she would end things, he was not certain. The predictability of human behavior only went so far. She was happy enough to dance the night away with Tom, though.

Molly and Tom. Janine and the Geek. John and Mary. Silver rings and happy endings.

It was a world to which he didn't belong. And so he left.

Only a few days after the wedding, he received a most intriguing proposition from Lady Smallwood – a case that had the potential to take down one of the most disgusting blackmailers he'd ever encountered. He let the case consume him immediately, obsessively throwing himself into every detail involving Magnussen. His plan began to formulate when Janine's name surfaced, becoming the connection he needed to get close to Magnussen. It was easy enough to set things in motion; the rapport they had shared at the wedding made for an easy transition to coffee dates and late nights at Baker Street. He'd made a good study of John's dating habits and brushed up on the fuzzy details with clips from the latest popular films.

His flat was slowly invaded by her presence, he was quickly running out of reasons to abandon her alone in his bed every night, and he couldn't help the thought that if it had been Molly none of it would have been necessary. Not the clichés of dating, not watching someone rearrange his things, and certainly not the avoidance of intimacy.

It was early on in the plan that he considered drawing Magnussen's attention with some misbehavior. The hypnotic trek to the rotting underbelly of London soon became a requirement, a way to convince his mind that he could stand nicknames, sickeningly sweet bodywash, and disturbed sleep.

It was for the case. It was all for the case. It was always for the case.

* * *

Cleaning her flat to within an inch of its life was not a common way for Molly to spend her day off, but when one's engagement has just ended and the little pieces of another person that wound up layered into one's life keep popping up at inopportune moments, it seems like a fine idea. She couldn't even manage a load of laundry without stumbling across one of Tom's shirts that accidentally made its way into her hamper.

_Her _hamper. Engaged for eight months and she always differentiated. It wasn't until it was over that it even dawned on her there had never been any talk of moving in, of sharing, of becoming one. They were still separate. Her things and his things.

So she took it upon herself to turn the place upside-down and box everything he might want back. The things that belonged to neither of them but still held a memory she chucked into the rubbish bin. Like the remainder of the bottle of wine they had shared only four days ago. The night they had returned from John and Mary's wedding.

She'd felt the fissures begin to form that day, the uncertainty creeping up on her as she looked at Tom with embarrassment and couldn't help comparing him outright, not only to Sherlock, but to everyone she was close to. He didn't fit. Like a puzzle piece that got mixed into the wrong box.

Molly also realized she had been far from honest with Tom. When he had flopped onto her sofa, loosening his tie and shedding his jacket, giving her the lopsided grin she used to find endearing, she knew it was time.

It was late, they'd had an obscenely long day, and it was absolutely the wrong conversation to have after the silly bliss of attending a wedding, but she had to put it all out there for him and whatever happened…happened.

Grabbing two glasses and the bottle of Chardonnay, she walked into the sitting room and sat on the floor opposite him, depositing the glasses on the coffee table. She tucked her stockinged feet under her, feeling the smooth silk of her dress through the nylons, and poured them both a generous glass.

"I knew," she said carefully.

"You knew what?"

"I knew that he was alive. I helped him. Faked his death."

"Who…you mean Sherlock?" Tom asked with surprise. She nodded, holding her glass with both hands and taking a sip for courage.

"There were only a few of us. It was so important that no one else knew. So when I met you and you asked about him…I'm sorry I had to lie to you," she said quietly.

Tom regarded her for a while, his expression slightly bewildered.

"You could have lost your job," he said, and Molly held back a wry laugh. Of course he would only be concerned for her welfare. "Faking records…isn't that illegal?"

"Not when Sherlock's brother is who he is," she told him.

"So all that time," he said slowly, leaning forward and setting his glass on the coffee table, not quite looking at her. "You knew he was okay."

"In a manner of speaking. 'Okay' has always been a loose term with Sherlock."

Her humor fell flat and by the look on Tom's face she could see that he was beginning to make connections, if only just skimming the surface. She swallowed and felt the tension of her pulse increase in her neck. Downing her wine suddenly seemed like a fabulous idea, but she refrained from the obvious sign of weakness.

"Did you see him at all?" Tom asked.

"Ah…sometimes," she said, her voice cracking ever so slightly. "He used my place to…plan."

It sounded weak, even to her own ears. And it was in that moment that she saw the defenses go up, the slight hardening in his eyes. Not anger, not really, but the beginnings of a distance that was only sure to grow.

"Before or after we started seeing each other?"

"Before," she said quickly, and then realized that wasn't the whole of it. "And once when he first came back, but it was different then…I was with you."

"Different," Tom repeated her word, looking as though she had just confirmed a question. "Meaning that before…"

Molly took a quick breath and swallowed her pride.

"We were…"

"Together?" he guessed.

"Not really. I mean, not like boyfriend and girlfriend, but…yeah. Together. For the blink of an eye."

"Enough of a blink, though, I'm guessing."

She rubbed at her nose quickly, feeling the first hints of moisture gather as tears threatened her eyes. God, why was she crying? Wasn't she prepared for the worst, wasn't she actually rather tired of this relationship?

"I'm sorry I kept it from you. Not really good form to talk about your ex and all that. Or whatever he is. But I needed you to know."

Tom was silent for several moments before she heard him let out a sigh. She looked up and saw that he was overly focused on the half-empty bottle of wine sitting before them.

"I love you, Molly. You know that. And I know you love me, even if I'm not exactly a genius," he said, finally looking up at her. Her voice caught in her throat, effectively silenced by his knowing words. "But look…I'm not stupid enough to try to marry someone who is in love with someone else. No matter how much I love her."

It was said so gently and in that moment the universe decided that ordinary was never going to be good enough for Molly's life.

And so they went about the motions of a breakup, returning personal items, wondering how their social lives would continue. She gave him the ring, knowing it would have hurt too much to keep it. Tom had no opinion one way or the other on the subject, but seemed content enough to take back this small symbol of their relationship.

Cleaning and clearing left Molly with a sense that there were possibilities again, that life was fresh. That, perhaps, the Sherlock she had seen at the wedding who basically bared his soul and proved he was not an emotionally stunted robot could be her new horizon. Things were changing all around them. He was changing.

Her hopes dimmed when he practically fell off the face of the earth for a month. 'A case' was the only thing Mrs. Hudson was able to tell her and she accepted it, knowing how involved he could get.

But it all crashed down around her for good when John rang her at Bart's, warning that they were coming in – for a drug test.

She was so angry she could barely see straight to run the tests. She could not remember the last time she had felt such pure anger, making her ears ring and the blood pump through her body in a disturbingly tactile way. Really, she needn't have bothered with the tests at all. All she had to do was take one look at him to know he was high off his arse and she was shocked it was even a question for John and Mary. She hadn't known Sherlock long enough to have firsthand knowledge of his 'habits,' but she had been warned: Mycroft had come to her early on when Sherlock started frequenting Bart's and her professional help. At the time, she was clueless as to how she could possibly help if it came to a relapse.

Now she understood.

She stood before Sherlock and did what John could not do and what Mycroft was unable to – she slapped him as hard as she could until she saw some flicker of remorse and realization spark in his eyes. Because she knew that with Sherlock, words would not work; words could be deflected, battled with his own wit. He needed the shock to make him understand the magnitude of what he had done, the hurt he had caused. She ignored the personal cuts and his horrendous attitude, not giving him an inch to put the focus anywhere but him.

Whether or not her actions helped she wouldn't find out for another week and a half when she would again receive a call from John.

"Molly…I should have called sooner…"

* * *

Strange things happen when facing death, particularly in a mind brimming with knowledge on how to prevent it. Not his knowledge, of course – the knowledge of others that he had come to rely on. It was an interesting time to find out that, despite years of declaring contempt for other humans and embracing solitude, Sherlock Holmes' best defense against death turned out to be the people in his life. He was not able to fight alone. They loved him and they saved him.

Molly was his first thought.

John was his last.

Molly kept him holding on and John was the reason he came back.

She saved him again.

He clawed his way back to life in order to save John.

The lies were exposed, the perfection of matrimony was shattered, and John was at the center of a very dangerous game of blackmail.

Sherlock teetered on the edge of life and death, using every reserve of strength he could manage to end the agony of the lies built up between the Watsons, ripping the bandage off of Mary's secrets and forcing John to see the reality of his life. Though he was the one physically deteriorating, he felt that all three of them were on the verge of dying that night in Baker Street. Nothing was resolved, but by the same token nothing had been severed, either. There was still hope for the Watsons and Sherlock was sure his effort was worth it.

He succumbed to his injuries, pushed beyond his limits, and finally accepted the rest and treatment the hospital bed offered.

Two days later, he blinked awake, wishing at once that he could go back to sleep. The pain was still excruciating. He really must remember to time things better. Perhaps not manage to get shot right before he needed to save his friend's marriage. When his senses returned enough to take in his surroundings, he noticed the presence at the end of his bed. Her hair was dyed a stunning shade of red and it was much shorter, but he recognized those ruby lips. She was propped against the curve of the plastic footboard with a newspaper balanced against her thighs and a cup of tea in hand.

"Morning," Irene said in a smooth voice, eyes never leaving the headlines. "Feel free to tell me to bugger off anytime. You must have a lot on your mind."

"What are you doing here?" he asked, not risking sitting up any further than he already was.

"Hopped a plane from Goa when I heard you were shot," she said, turning a genuinely concerned eye on him.

"Touching," he said a smile. "But you've been in Bristol for the last five months."

She lowered the paper and gave him a sly smile.

"You're no fun at all, Mr. Holmes."

"I must be slipping if you ever thought I was fun."

"Oh, loads. Don't you remember Karachi?

"Moment of weakness," he muttered, looking away from her.

"You seem to be having a lot of those recently," she said, tutting a bit. "Magnussen's secretary - "

"Case," he bit out.

"'Course it was."

"And how did you - "

"Everyone knows," she said smartly, leaning forward and resting an elbow on her knee. "I'll leave it to your brilliant mind to figure out how. But that's not the serious moment of weakness, is it? Your dear little pathologist is."

His eyes narrowed to slits as he glared at her.

"Oh darling," she crooned. "Don't look so stricken. Do you think you're the first one to whisper the name of your heart's desire in your sleep? You even did it in Berlin when you were playing at death. It was John one time, actually. Of course, it had a totally different ring to it. Made me wonder, though…"

"She is not a weakness."

"So you worked it out?"

"There's nothing to work out," he said gruffly.

"Oh no? Send her my way, then. She's delightful."

"Um, no," he said firmly.

"Mmm," she hummed in consideration. "I would have thought you were above that, dear. You don't want to commit, but you don't want anyone else to play with her either. Careful with that…someone will come along and take her if you leave your things lying about."

He stopped short, suddenly useless at schooling his expression into one she might not be able to read. Highlighting his failure, he heard her sigh of sympathy.

"But that's already happened, hasn't it?" she said gently. When he wouldn't meet her eye, she changed the subject. "Thought you would want to know, in case he hasn't told you, that Dr. Watson had officially returned to Baker Street. I've been keeping a little lookout."

"Hm. Good thing I put his chair back, then."

"What happened there?" Irene inquired.

Sherlock shrugged as much as his aching body would let him.

"Oh, the usual," he said. "Marital tiff. Disagreement about window dressings, most likely."

She gave him a slow smile, not believing him for a moment. He offered nothing more and she hopped off the bed, retrieving her purse from the visitor's chair. She walked towards him and took his hand, giving it a light squeeze.

"I have to be going, I'm afraid. Can't risk being out for very long these days," she said secretively.

"Especially when you've got a fine reason to be at home anyway."

She smirked, but flushed slightly.

"Miranda. She could very well be the one," she told him with a coy shrug and an arch of one perfectly shaped eyebrow. He gave a small smile and a nod, somehow knowing that this was a parting of the ways for them. "Take care of yourself, Mr. Holmes," she said softly before turning and sauntering out of the room.

It wasn't until she had left that he noticed the single rose on the far table.

* * *

Sherlock was starting to feel abandoned as he lay in hospital and it was a feeling he resented greatly. It seemed that every other woman in his life had the time to stop by his little recovery room except that one that he was truly expecting to see. He hadn't seen or talked to Molly since Bart's and the humiliating episode that was his drug test. In many ways, he didn't blame her for staying away; he had a nice track record of driving people away. The day was somewhat of a blur (he couldn't even keep track of which car he was in or where people had gone), but he knew he had been a sight to behold. He'd fucked up in a huge way with Molly Hooper. But the selfish, egotistical part of him wanted her to come through the door, worrying about him in the way that she did, and he was hurt that she wasn't conforming to routine.

When she finally did walk through the door to his room, he was still feeling the sting of rejection, no matter how self-centered it was.

"So you finally decided to pay a visit?"

"Yeah, well, someone finally decided to tell me what happened to you," she replied bitterly. He gave her a confused look and she pulled up a chair. "John only just called me last night. As usual, I am a footnote in the story that is Sherlock Holmes."

The annoyance he had felt at her absence dissipated and he felt guilty for even thinking she was being dramatic by not coming to see him. He would need to remind John that Molly was on the top of the list of people to call when he was gravely injured.

She looked at him and he could see the redness in her eyes. She'd been crying. His fault, of course, again.

"All right?" she asked.

"I've been better."

Molly nodded and looked away, her ponytail swaying a bit with the abrupt movement. He could always imagine that hairstyle so clearly, no matter how long he spent away from her. Even when he was dying, he could see the little details about her as she worked to save his life.

"Thirty-two," she said suddenly, her voice sounding raw.

"What?"

"Thirty-two," she repeated, her jaw tensing as she spoke. "That's how many bodies ended up in in my morgue last year from overdose."

His gaze dropped down, unable to look her in the eyes any longer. The hurt and disappointment he saw there was worse than any lecture from John or snide remarks from Mycroft. Molly Hooper took up a far more intimate corner of his heart and not simply because he had shared her bed. She always managed to hold up the mirror to his own behavior and never failed to let him know when he was wrong. Always trying to keep him righteous, or as close to it as he could get. And he listened, because she was brilliant and trustworthy and would always be there to catch him when he fell.

But now, the way she looked at him made him realize he had jeopardized that, perhaps permanently.

"Maybe you don't care, or at least you pretend not to…but I have to see those families, Sherlock. I have to see the heartbreak and the destruction every single time. To think that it could have been you, that you could have done that to us…" She nearly choked on the last few words, pulling in a deep, shaking breath. "I can't be your handler, Sherlock. I don't want to be your replacement for the drugs, because if one day you decide it's not working anymore and you end up right back with a needle in your arm, I will not be able to live with it. But if you can promise me it'll never happen again, if you need support, a friend, a…anything. I will be a fucking rock for you, Sherlock, but only if you find it in yourself to walk away from all that for good."

She'd obviously been thinking about what she would say to him for days, practicing exactly how she would lay down the law. Molly rarely strung together so many sentences without thinking it over first. It was why he felt bad the instant he opened his mouth to respond, but as a true highlight to their contrasting ways, he rarely thought before he spoke.

"I've been shot," he said, slightly confused that it didn't concern her more.

To his surprise, she gave a short laugh, shaking her head and running the tips of her fingers under her eyes to wipe away the tears that were collecting there.

"You complete arse," she said. "I _know _that."

"And yet you're lecturing me about something that completely pales by comparison."

"Getting shot wasn't your fault," she said incredulously. "Getting high on heroin was. I'm a little more worried about that."

"I wasn't going to overdose, I had it completely under control."

"The hell you did."

"It was for a _case_."

"Oh yes, I heard all about your case," she said bitterly, looking up at the ceiling. "That's the only way you could possibly suffer through a relationship, isn't it? By flying higher than a kite."

"It certainly helped."

"It was an excuse - "

"I didn't care about her!" he practically shouted, wincing as the effort engaged his abdominal muscles. "Not in that way."

"All the more reason for you to feel like a shit, then!" she snapped back, her face angrier than he'd ever seen. "And if you don't understand why, then you're not nearly as much of a genius as I thought you were."

She was up from the chair and to the door in seconds, not waiting for his response, though he had the answer as soon as she was gone.

* * *

Baker Street with John was not as pleasant as it used to be. Sherlock was barely returned home from hospital when he started to think of places to go instead. Not that he didn't want to be there for his friend, but he was not generally practiced in the ways of cheering up a cranky man whose marriage was on the rocks because his wife was an assassin. Every time he tried to broach the subject or otherwise be a distraction or some form of comfort, John yelled or slammed something on the table and it frequently ended with him storming up the stairs. After a week of this, Sherlock needed space.

He took a risk in choosing Molly's, but all things considered, he stood a better chance of resting peacefully there.

When he entered her building, he took the elevator to the third floor and almost just let the door slide closed again when he looked out into the hall. At the last second, he put his hand out to catch the door and pushed it open, stepping onto the worn wood of the hallway. He knocked on her door before he could think twice about it, feeling his heart jump a bit when he heard movement on the other side. There was a pause as she looked through the peephole and he heard a sigh.

A few seconds passed and then the door unlocked, swinging open to reveal Molly in athletic shorts and a sweatshirt, her hair braided to the side.

The look on her face left him nervous. She seemed uninterested. Tired. Bored.

"Out of hospital, then?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

"For the time being," he replied, his gaze unable to focus on her face. "Check-ups and all that, periodically."

Molly nodded, looking down at her feet.

"I'm surprised Mycroft let you out of his sight," she said quietly, her weight shifting and her hip jutting out a bit. Finding a more relaxed pose.

"Oh I'm pretty certain he put cameras in Baker Street," Sherlock said casually, yet feeling the exact opposite.

She nodded again and remained silent. His stomach started to tighten as he began to worry that this would be their new modus operandi – him suddenly craving her attention, her comfort, and feeling his hopes crumbling when she didn't give it at the drop of a hat. Oh how the winds had changed.

When the silence had stretched beyond what was comfortable, Molly finally looked up at him.

"You need a place to stay?" she asked, sounding like she already knew the answer.

"Just tonight…if it's not too much of a bother."

Stepping to the side, Molly nodded and let him in. He carefully removed his Belstaff, folding it neatly over the back of a dining chair as she walked past him.

"I was just going to bed," she told him, stopping at the door to her bedroom when he didn't respond, giving him a quizzical look. "Coming?"

He blinked, amazed that the invitation remained to share her bed, and quickly followed before she had the chance to change her mind. As she tossed back the comforter on her bed, he noticed that she had purchased new sheets. He kept his deduction about the reason to himself. She slid into bed, not saying a word when he removed his shirt and belt. In an effort to send the right message, he kept his trousers and undershirt on – just needing a place to rest, not expecting anything from her at all.

When they had settled in a way that was surprisingly habitual, Molly reached out to turn off the light and they lay in the dark, both perfectly wide awake.

"I know why you were angry," he began slowly, keeping his tone unpretentious. He knew he needed to remain repentant if he was going to set things right and he was in no way pretending.

"About the drugs?" she asked, her voice small, but tense.

"No. About Janine. About using her as a means to an end." He got no response and decided to plunge ahead. "I would never have done anything like that to you."

"Should never have done that to anyone," she told him haughtily.

He took a quick breath and considered his words.

"You're right. You're always right."

Molly rolled over and he could just see her eyes in the dim light, her brow drawn down in contemplation.

"That's the funny thing about you, Sherlock. You always think you need to trick people into helping you – that for some reason we won't do it simply because we want to. When are you going to get that all you need to do is ask?"

Letting her words settle, he shifted so that he was fully facing her. He could smell her perfume again, and only her perfume.

"Simple as that – just ask," he said, thinking of all the times the people in his life had done so much for him without the slightest provocation.

"Sometimes," she replied, giving him a small smile.

"Not much of a challenge in that," he teased cautiously, taking her smile as a sign that they were on better ground.

She laughed, looking displeased that she had allowed him to put her in a good humor. Without hesitation, Sherlock reached out and looped his arm around her waist, pulling her close until she rested against his chest, her hands pressed firmly into his back. This was what he had needed, wanted, for months and he was not ashamed to admit it.

"Don't think I've forgiven you," she muttered against his shoulder.

"I know," he said, smiling.


	4. Chapter 4

"You think I should forgive her?"

"It's been four months, you should at least talk to her," Sherlock muttered, trying to ignore John's incessant pacing in the kitchen at Baker Street. It made it very hard to focus on holding the pipette steady for DNA sampling. He steadied his elbows on the table for additional support as he poised the pipette tip over the surface of the agar gel.

"I've done all the talking I want to do," John grumbled, throwing his head back slightly to relieve the tension in his neck.

"Then go forgive her," Sherlock said slowly, pushing the plunger down. John laughed sarcastically. "Then don't forgive her."

"Bloody lot of help you are."

Sherlock plunked the pipette on the kitchen table with a frustrated huff and looked at his friend.

"Look," he said sharply. "You have all the facts you need to make an informed decision - "

"Yeah, she shot you and she lied," John fumed.

"Oh god, we're back to that," Sherlock groaned, dragging his hands over his face. "She made a bad decision. She's not the first person in the history of the world to do so."

"A bad – a _bad decision_? She almost killed you!" John shouted, spinning on the spot and accidentally kicking the leg of the table, upsetting the entire test. Sherlock watched the water and the sample he had spent half an hour preparing slosh over onto the table. John looked at everything, seeming to just notice that Sherlock had been occupied. "Where the _hell_ did all of this come from?"

"Bart's."

"You stole all of this?"

"I asked for it," Sherlock told him calmly, looking despondently at the mess. John looked at him as though he had sprouted a second head. Giving the experiment up for lost, Sherlock stood up and walk to the counter. "Tea?"

"No, I don't want any bloody tea," John snapped, sitting down at the table with a huff.

Sherlock studied him while he filled the electric kettle with water, taking in the tension under every inch of skin, the puffiness under his eyes. His clothes were not in pristine shape, but that was nothing particularly new for John; the lack of attention to his appearance for an extended periods of time however, was.

"You should look at the - "

"I don't want to look at the memory drive," John silenced him quickly, crossing his arms and refusing to follow Sherlock's advice for the tenth time.

For several minutes, the only sound in the kitchen was the bubbling of the heating kettle.

"Have you considered the fact that she has a child to take into account now?" Sherlock started calmly. "That Magnussen may very well have threatened that life along with hers. And yours."

John became very still and his eyes looked straight ahead.

"Of course I have…it doesn't excuse - "

"She was cornered. She panicked. She did the best she knew to ensure everyone's survival and the survival of her family," Sherlock stated, letting the slightest hint of emotion into his voice as he spoke. He looked over at John. "Mary is on the right side, John. She always has been. It might not be to society's standards, but she is."

He could see John's breathing expand his chest in a controlled manner, his hands clenching into fists. His mouth was set stoically, but in his eyes there was a softening, a hint of the conflict within. Sherlock pulled the kettle from its base and poured the steaming water into the tea pot.

"You'll forgive her."

John laughed, annoyed, and shook his head.

"And how do you deduce that? How do you always think you know what I'll do?" he demanded.

"Because if you weren't going to, you would have walked away already. You could turn her in, take custody of the child, and go on with your merry life."

Swallowing hard, John's gaze dropped.

"That's not…not at all what I want."

"I know," Sherlock said, lifting the teapot to pour his afternoon cup. "Now you need to find out how you will forgive her."

* * *

Sherlock got one thing completely right and one thing spectacularly wrong.

John forgave Mary and made sure her past remained buried.

Magnussen still won.

He'd never felt so wretched, so utterly defeated, as when he watched John stand there and take the abuses of Magnussen, knowing all of their lives were about to be ruined. Sent off to jail, if they were lucky. Mary would be found out. And the child…faced with never knowing its parents, the bravery and magnificence that was the Watsons.

The decision was easy as he comprehended the fate he had just sealed for John and Mary.

It was a bit of a blur as he was swept away from the estate, quickly delivered to a government building and placed into custody in a sparse, locked room. Lacking anything else to do, he sat himself in a stiff leather and chrome chair near the wall and waited. Hours passed before anyone entered the room and when the door finally opened he wished he were still alone.

"You've gone too far this time, brother mine."

"I am fairly aware of that."

Mycroft was not as adept at keeping the poker face he seemed to pride himself in. Quite often, his feelings shone through in complete defiance of the cool exterior he wished to portray. Sherlock suffered from the same weakness, but unlike his brother, he was able to put on a fine performance when the occasion called for it. At the moment, Mycroft was showing the brotherly affection that had been missing between them their entire lives. Sherlock recalled his words outside their childhood home just the day before and realized they must have been sincere.

"We don't have many options for you, I'm afraid," Mycroft said with a sigh of failure. "You should have listened to me. Left well enough alone."

"You have no idea what the implications of leaving well enough alone would have been," Sherlock muttered, leaning further back in his chair and stretching his arms along the arm rests. If only Mycroft did know what would have happened – it could have swayed his opinion of Sherlock's actions. As it was, Mary's true identity and the previous life she was hiding remained the knowledge of Sherlock and John and no one else. He intended to keep it that way.

"Well the implications of getting involved are now quite clear." Sherlock's eyes flicked up to his brother and he awaited his fate. "The mission in Eastern Europe. It's your best chance. If there was anything more I could do for you, Sherlock, please know I would."

The earnestness in his brother's voice left Sherlock surprised and humbled. His sentence was what he expected – better, actually. At least he would be able to do some good for the world before he met his end rather than waste away in a prison cell. John and Mary would be safe and would never have to pay for his error in judgment.

"John can't know how that mission will end," he said firmly. Mycroft's expression faltered slightly at the blatant acknowledgment of Sherlock's expected fate.

"If you prefer, you can tell him yourself," he offered. Sherlock nodded in agreement. Mycroft paused for a moment before speaking again, shifting his weight as he prepared to leave the room. "We'll make the arrangements. I'll be back soon."

As he turned to leave, Sherlock lifted his head and made a decision he knew would expose a relationship even more dear than the one with John Watson.

"Bring Molly Hooper here," he said decisively before he could second guess his choice to reveal this secret to Mycroft.

"The pathologist?" Mycroft said incredulously. "Sherlock, the airstrip was the best I was hoping for the Watsons as a meeting place. What makes you think - "

"Brother, seeing as how I just killed a man to allow John Watson the love of his life, I would think the least you could do is let me say goodbye to mine with a little privacy and dignity."

Mycroft blinked at him, slightly startled. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I know the idea must be a shock to you, but we're running out of time here, so if you could hurry up a bit," he said testily.

"You found yourself a goldfish," Mycroft said slowly.

Sherlock's jaw tensed at the condescending description, one he would never have applied to Molly, not even when she was just the pathologist he went to for favors.

"For being the 'smart one,' you are really incredibly obtuse sometimes, Mycroft."

His brother cocked his head.

"You think she's exceptional?"

"Yes," Sherlock said flatly. He paused, thinking that after all they had been through, this would be how it would end for them: a rushed goodbye and any chance to try – just to try - to be together extinguished. When it came to Molly Hooper, he would always disappoint. "And I would have been terrible for her."

"Oh, no doubt."

* * *

Molly saw the news in the morning headlines. News mogul shot and killed. Investigation underway. Her hands shook as she held the paper and she just knew. The papers and the Yard may have been in the dark as to what had happened, but she was able to add up the bits of the mystery. Being as close as she was to Sherlock made it that much easier. There were nights when he would show up at her flat just to seek her presence or to think in peace. She knew John was back at Baker Street and that things were not copasetic. She understood that Magnussen was the enemy. But beyond that, she was left grasping for straws and whatever she could discern from the news. Sherlock's silence over the last few days gave her more answers than anything else. Her texts wishing him and his family a Merry Christmas had received no response.

Therefore, it was not much of a surprise when Mycroft's sleek, statuesque assistant showed up at her door a day later with little more than a "Come with me" and she was whisked off in a government car.

The building they took her to was unobtrusive; the perfect place to hide Sherlock and cover up his crimes. From the main floor, she was escorted into a lift and up to the third floor. The doors opened onto a long hall that was occupied by a smattering of people in suits, many huddled and talking in hushed tones while looking through folders of papers. She felt horrendously out of place in her jeans and rust colored jumper, like a blaring headlight in the dark. No one paid her any mind as she was led down the hall. Mycroft was waiting next to a door, aloof as usual. He slid a key card through a reader on the side of the door as she approached and the door clicked open.

"You have ten minutes, Doctor Hooper," he said.

In a flash, she was through the door and into a room that looked to be little more than a glorified jail cell. Her eyes adjusted to the dimmer light and she immediately saw Sherlock, standing on the other side of the room with his back to the door. He turned his head slightly and caught her eye. Her mouth pulled tight at the look on his face and she felt her insides twist with worry.

"Was it you?" she asked quietly. His gaze dropped down and he shuffled a bit, turning towards her. "It's all over the papers. Magnussen's death."

"Mycroft has pushed for leniency in my punishment," he said by way of explanation, his voice showing emotions that she wasn't used to. "I'm going undercover. Six month mission in Eastern Europe."

She stared at him, her brow drawn tightly and her eyes steadily locked on his, trying to employ his methods of deduction to understand what he was really telling her. After a few moments, she blinked and her eyes moistened, her bottom lip trembling slightly.

"You're not coming back, are you?"

"No."

"He's sending you to die?" she cried, resentment flowing through her.

"He has no choice, Molly," Sherlock said, desperate for her to stop making the whole thing so emotional. It only made it worse. "He knows I'll rot in prison."

"You're his _brother_!"

"All the more reason to handle this quietly."

His honesty was a blow to the gut and she bit back the sob that suddenly bubbled up from inside her. His brow lowered in a pained expression at the sound of her choked control of her emotions. She was used to seeing his regret for hurting her, but this vulnerability was something entirely knew. Ignoring the beginnings of a protest on his lips, she crossed the small space and wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her body as close to his as she could manage and laying her ear flush to his chest to hear the beat of his heart. He stiffened for a moment before relenting and returning the embrace, burying one hand in the hair at the base of her neck to encourage her closeness.

"What on earth were you doing?" she begged to know. "Are you ever going to tell me what this has all really been about?"

"It's not my story to tell," he said cryptically.

"Why did you do it?" she pressed again.

"What good am I if I cannot protect the people I care about?" he asked her, trying to give her the best answer he could offer. "What other purpose do I have?"

At those words, she pulled back and looked up at him. His eyes seemed empty; lost. Her throat began to burn from holding back the tears.

A knock at the door made her start and she felt panic well up in her chest, knowing their time was almost up. She slid her hands up to his shoulders and around the back of his neck, pulling him close again. Standing on tiptoe, she put her mouth as close to his ear as she could manage. She had a suspicion that the room was heavily monitored and she wanted the words to be just between them.

"You are loved, Sherlock," she whispered, her voice heavy. "Please know that. Please…"

"As are you, Molly," he whispered back.

The words had hardly left his mouth when the door was opened. He was far stronger than she managed to be, stepping out of her embrace and lifting his hands to cup either side of her face, pressing a lingering kiss on her forehead. A tear disobeyed her desire to remain strong and slipped down her cheek. She reached up to grasp one of his hands, holding it in place as she turned her head and placed a kiss into his palm. The salt of her tears mingled with the taste of his flesh on her lips. She felt her heart starting to splinter as he stepped away from her and gave her a sad smile.

She turned quickly before she broke down completely and walked out the door, stopping short when she heard it close behind her.

Her fingernails dug into the palms of her hands and she faltered a bit trying to take the first few steps away from the door. When she heard the tap of an umbrella tip on the floor in front of her, her face grew hot. She bit the insides of her cheeks as she lifted her eyes to look at Mycroft.

"Don't," she seethed when he opened his mouth, stopping him cold. His eyebrows flicked up briefly and he pursed his lips. "I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear your excuses for why you can't manage to find any other solution than _this_ for the man who did what you and the entire British government could not."

"Kill a man in cold blood?"

"A blackmailer who drove a man to suicide and was ruining lives," Molly said. Her pride swelled a bit when Mycroft looked at her in surprise. "You think he doesn't tell me things? I know about the Smallwood case. I know why he killed himself. I'm not…I don't believe it was Sherlock's best choice. But maybe it was his only choice."

"He became too emotionally involved, Miss Hooper, despite my warnings, and he faced the unfortunate consequences of that. This isn't pleasant for me - "

She laughed unkindly at his words, wanting to throttle him for diminishing Sherlock's actions to an emotional overreaction. The details may not have been clear to her, but she knew self-sacrifice when she saw it in Sherlock Holmes. She'd been all too familiar with what he was willing to do for John once before.

Mycroft sighed and looked down at the ground.

"It may be difficult for the world at large to believe, but I do care about - "

"Do you? Because if you really cared, you wouldn't have spent his entire life belittling him and telling him that feelings are worthless. That _his_ feelings are worthless. You turned him into what he is and for some reason you're still trying to blame _him_ for the outcome. It must disappoint you so much that his final act was to bravely, selflessly, sacrifice himself for his friends, to see him care that much. To see him do the one thing you seem incapable of – saving the people he loves."

Tears were spilling over onto her cheeks and she was highly aware of every person in the hall looking at her, but she was unconcerned. Furious and devastated, she could only focus on the man whom she blamed for the injustice of Sherlock's fate – his whole fate.

She whipped around and walked away quickly, dragging the back of her hand under her eyes to wipe away the tears. Locking eyes with the man who had escorted her into the building, she pointed towards the lift.

"Take me out of here," she demanded.

* * *

Molly had dealt with of her fair share of detective work and the macabre while working with the Yard. Not much took her into truly dangerous territory, nothing that would have left her trembling for her own life.

But for the first time in her existence, she felt true terror, standing in Bart's and staring at the flashing message on the monitor of a computer.

_Did you miss me?_

It was a battle to know which reaction to fight off first – the loss of her lunch or the loss of bladder control. Her hands shook as they fell away from her lab coat and she felt her vision tunnel. She shook her head slightly and reached slowly into her coat pocket, fingers trembling violently as she navigated her phone with great effort.

_Did you miss me?_

"Molly?"

"Greg…are you seeing this?"

"Are you okay?"

He sounded worried. That couldn't be good.

"I'm at Bart's."

Was that an answer? She wasn't even sure, she just knew she had to be sure what she was seeing was real.

"Stay there, I'm on my way."

She clutched her phone and looked around the deserted path lab, slowly realizing that a populated area would be a safer location. The morgue certainly wasn't the place to be for crowd safety. She quickly made her way to the main entrance of the hospital, plastering herself against a wall in full view of a security camera and scanning the faces of everyone passing by, afraid that any second one of them would be the face of someone she had once trusted. Someone she had let into her home and let touch her…

_Don't think about it_.

If people were already confused by the strange feed of Moriarty's face occupying every screen in the building, the sight of Greg and about a dozen Yard officers rushing through the entrance must have set off a wave of rumors. Greg put a protective arm around her and they were out the door in seconds. After climbing into his car, he pulled out his phone.

"Yeah, I've got her," he said, then paused as the other person talked. "Right. On our way."

"Mycroft?"

"Yeah," he said. "He's sweeping your building. Posting a guard."

She swallowed the bile rising in her throat, feeling a wash of guilt for the way she had talked to the elder Holmes brother just a few days prior. Anger and despair had pushed words from her mouth that would not have surfaced under normal circumstances, even if she did believe them to be the truth to some extent.

It appeared that he understood that, or at least understood her importance to Sherlock. He was nowhere to be seen when they arrived at her building, but the presence of her assigned protection was very visible.

Greg stayed with her until she managed to stop trembling, telling her not to hesitate for one second to call him if she thought anything was wrong. He frowned at her for a moment before nodding and reaching into his jacket and removing a small, silver pistol.

"Load the bullets this way. Safety is here. Point, aim, shoot," he said firmly, showing her all the functions before handing it over to her and making her repeat the movements he had demonstrated. "Show me. Again."

When she was left alone in her flat, it seemed unnaturally quiet. She turned the telly on for comfort without really watching what was on. She picked through a frozen dinner before realizing she could not stomach food and shoved it back into the fridge. Toby trotted after her as she moved about the flat, curling around her legs when she stilled for too long in one spot. As the sky darkened outside, she retreated to her bedroom and the childish safety of her bed. She ached to hear from the one person she knew was never coming back.

Toby was a bit unique amongst cats, becoming her shadow and curling up right against her when he sensed she was distressed. So it was that night as she sat in bed, her legs tucked up and Toby purring against her stomach. She absently ran her fingers across his fur, staring at nothing in particular. It was late and she knew she should be getting some sleep, but she had left her contacts in, knowing any sort of rest was most likely out of the question. She wanted to be able to see, afraid to wake up and be at a disadvantage in case…

In case.

The nightlight from the living room spilled a dim yellow light into her bedroom, offering a naïve sense of security that she clung to. Every sputter of the motor of the fridge, every little creak of the walls made her jolt, her eyes shooting to the source. It was enough to work her up to thinking she was imagining things when she heard the rattle of her door lock. When she realized the sound was very real, she sucked in a breath, holding it to focus on listening. Her heart pounded and her hand slid slowly to her bedside table, reaching for the pistol. Mycroft had men posted around her building, she knew logically that she shouldn't be worried. But the sound of her front door opening and heavy footsteps approaching her room had her flinging Toby from her lap as she rose up on her knees, her hand half raised to aim the gun.

The silhouette that filled her door was the last one she expected to see.

"Oh, who in hell gave you a gun?"

Molly let out a relieved laugh at the sound of Sherlock's irritated tone.

"Greg," she said, checking to make sure the safety was on before putting the pistol back on the bedside table. "He thought I might need it."

"Get rid of it, you have half of MI6 stationed outside your flat," he said decisively.

"And yet you got in," she replied with a smile.

He blinked, brow furrowed, and she took the small pleasure of making Sherlock Holmes momentarily speechless. Her mirth dropped after a few moments, her eyes softening as she stared at him and it finally sank in that he was standing in her room and not on a plane flying towards certain death. The mood in the room changed, the knowledge that so many obstacles were suddenly removed descending on both of their minds. No fiancés, no relapses, no criminal networks. She felt the enormity of such freedom, the fear of openly facing feelings they had been burying for over a year.

The terror of Moriarty began to drift away, but she still understood it was the driving factor behind the swiftness of his steps as he crossed the room. Reaching the edge of her bed, he paused, placing a gentle hand along the side of her face as he studied her. She let him stare for a moment or two before lifting her arms around his shoulders, pulling him close. Kneeling on her mattress, Molly was nearly eyelevel with him and she took advantage of it, burying her face into the crook of his neck and smelling the cedar and bergamot of his cologne, the slight hint of tobacco lingering in the collar of his Belstaff. His skin was soft and warm, but she could just feel the sandpaper of stubble forming along his jaw.

Her mind drifted back nearly three years and she remembered the feel of that roughness on her skin, in places that still burned to be touched by him.

His hands slid firmly along her back, drifting under her loose hair and bunching the fabric of her sleep shirt.

"You were my first thought," he murmured against her ear. She hummed into his neck and closed her eyes, fighting the emotions welling up. "I will not let him anywhere near you."

"You really think he's alive?" she whispered.

"I don't know," he admitted slowly. "We had the body. Unless his network went deeper than even Mycroft could determine…"

Taking a deep breath that changed to more of a shudder, Molly contemplated a world containing a vengeful, living Moriarty. Sherlock pulled back in order to look her in the eye, one hand firmly on her waist and the other reaching up to cradle her face.

She saw the promise in his eyes that he wasn't willing to vocalize, the promise to keep her safe.

The desire to be closer to him suddenly gripped her and she leaned forward, feeling the warmth of his mouth for the first time in two years. He responded immediately, leaning into her and planting slow, soft kisses on her lips. But just as quickly as it started, he stopped, though still pressed against her and unwilling to let go.

"Molly, I don't…I…"

"I know," she said quickly. "Not the right time. I just wanted to…yeah, I wanted to."

They stared at each other for a few moments before Molly's eyebrows lifted, looking hopeful.

"Stay with me?" she asked.

"Of course."

She slipped off to the bathroom and took her contacts out, splashing water over her face to clear her mind. By the time she returned to the bedroom, Sherlock was waiting in her bed, looking far too wonderful in his undershirt. One quick glance to the chair in the corner holding his clothes confirmed her suspicion that, beneath the blankets, he was down to his pants.

She had to remind herself that they had already had one turmoil induced tryst and she would really rather prefer this new aspect of their relationship not start that way.

Joining him in the bed, she turned on her side to face him as he turned out the light. Sherlock reached out in the dark and found her hand, threading their fingers. With their hands joined, resting on the mattress between them, they fell asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**I can't begin to thank everyone for the reviews and the follows, it makes me so joyful :)**

**And to MizJoely, thank you for all the hard beta work!**

* * *

When the news of Moriarty's supposed return was delivered to Sherlock, he fully expected to be brought back to London and begin a war for the city. He hadn't quite expected the war inside himself in regards to Molly. The journey his mind took with her was convoluted to say the least. He'd found comfort in her that he had never found in anyone else. Not only physical comfort, but mental as well. Though the physical was nice. Very nice. But the things he had been certain she wanted, the date nights and meeting the family and every other trite aspect of a relationship, he maintained he couldn't give her. It wasn't in his makeup to conform to those social procedures. So he watched her experience those things with a 'normal' man and witnessed her slowly come to dislike all of it.

And it was in the midst of his relapse, his conflict with Magnussen, that he realized Molly was more like him than he'd ever given her credit for.

It was then that he realized he loved her, and had loved her for a long time. Took him forever and a day to recognize the feeling for what it was. Not so surprising when it had taken him an age to realize that she loved him. He hadn't known she felt so much for him all that time ago. He just hadn't known. Failed to see the depth behind the nervous smiles until a simple Christmas present revealed everything.

He wanted to hide it as much as he wanted to act on it when he went to her flat, pulled back to London from his mission and given a second chance. Moriarty had overlooked her once; he'd also used her, unbothered by manipulating her to get to Sherlock. There was no telling what he would be willing to do once he discovered how pivotal she had been in faking Sherlock's death – if he didn't already know. And should he find out how much she meant…

He stopped his body before it gained control over his mind and his ability to reason. Logic, control, cool removal from the chemical impulses of emotions – that would be what would save them. Unlike the last time, if he fell into the softness of her body and the relief it offered now, he could not walk away so easily. It would all be over for him.

Fortunately, there was business to attend to in the form of Moriarty. It was one of the only things that could pull him from her side at the moment.

He emerged from her flat and slipped into the car Mycroft had sent, weaving through the streets of London to the Watsons' home. He noted at least four cars parked on the street with agents keeping watch inside. Mycroft was taking things seriously. With their combined backgrounds, John and Mary could surely take care of themselves, but Sherlock was not leaving anything to chance, especially given Mary's current condition. It also helped to enforce the appearance of a normal home to his brother. As long as Mary kept her assassin gear well hidden, it should all be kept very quiet.

John was naturally hesitant to leave Mary alone and after a short argument it was agreed that she would join them in their meeting with Mycroft. Sherlock monitored their interactions carefully, tracking the progress of their healing. So far, John was faring better, but only because he had the benefit of being the one to do the forgiving. Trust was slowly being rebuilt, though; that was easy enough to read in their body language, in their tones.

Lestrade and Donovan were already gathered around the table in the basement meeting room. Papers and maps were spread out over the table, plastered to the walls. Agents were busy on computers, scrambling to track down a source for the feed. Sherlock cringed at their optimism.

"You won't find him that way," he announced to the room. Most ignored him, but Mycroft, Lestrade, and Donovan turned to look at the group walking in the door. "Really, Mycroft, you think it'll be as easy as finding an IP address?"

"It's protocol, Sherlock."

"It came through all screens in London. Just the city," Donovan said, pointing at the red marks on the map outlining where the event had occurred. "Lasted for exactly four minutes."

"All screens?" John repeated, walking up to the table with Mary at his elbow. Lestrade looked at Mary and put a hand on the back of a chair.

"Do you need a seat?" he offered.

"No, thank you, I'm fine," Mary smiled.

"Computer monitors and televisions," Mycroft told them. "But not mobiles."

"Cab monitors?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes," Mycroft said, his head tilting in curiosity. "How did you know?"

"He's done it before," Sherlock replied, thinking back to the beginnings of his orchestrated fall from grace. "Directly connected feeds. Far easier to hack into than wireless devices. Greater chance at being seen."

"Well hang on, are we saying he's definitely alive?" Lestrade asked incredulously. "Wasn't there a body?"

"He's a deceptive bastard," Donovan said with a quick glance around the room. "We all know the tricks he played last time. He's good at it, who's to say he didn't have one more up his sleeve?"

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft and quickly read his expression. The truth – far better in the long run.

"We had men transport the body to the morgue under high security," Mycroft explained.

"Kept it there until the fuss died down. It was supposed to be moved in the middle of the night," Sherlock added.

"Supposed to be?" Donovan repeated.

"Neither of us was there for the transport," Sherlock said with a pointed look at Mycroft who shifted uncomfortably at the hint of accusation in his voice. Much like Moriarty himself, Mycroft preferred not to be overly hands on when it came to his business. He'd trusted his underlings to take care of things properly.

"Wouldn't Molly Hooper have seen something," Lestrade said, trying to be helpful.

"No, she wasn't there that night," Sherlock said quickly. The DI and Donovan looked at him with curious expressions.

"She wasn't?" Donovan said, her interest piqued.

"I thought she was there faking your death records," Lestrade stated slowly.

"Well she wasn't," Sherlock snapped, walking around the table in irritation. "So now we have a body unaccounted for."

"The men who were in charge are being questioned as we speak," Mycroft assured them. One of the agents working at a computer called for him and he excused himself from the group.

"Is it possible he wasn't dead?" Mary asked carefully, looking at the information spread out on the table.

"Of course it's possible," Sherlock said. "Just not probable."

Just as he had done when Mycroft had first told him the news, he thought back to the moment on the roof. What did he have as evidence? The gun fired. The smell of powder and discharge. Blood. Brain matter. The quickly increasing pallor that went with rapid blood loss. What didn't he have? An actual visual of the exit wound. A bullet.

* * *

For all the dramatics that four minutes of hacked feed caused in their lives, surprisingly little came of it in the days and weeks that followed. In fact, absolutely nothing came of it, to Sherlock's great annoyance. The men who had been charged with disposing of Moriarty's body insisted it had been done right: inspected and cremated as ordered. The files existed and they had the word of the cremation attendant. It was all up to snuff.

He should have been grateful that things were quiet and the people who had been threatened before were safe. It was bothersome that he almost wished for something to happen. To Sherlock, quiet did not mean out of harm's way, only a delay of something to come. It left him completely on edge, unable to turn his focus fully on any other cases. Add to that John's increasing absence to look after Mary as she neared her due date and he felt incredibly restless.

He filled the time with simple cases in between checking in on the people around him. If anyone had been keeping tabs on his activity, they would have noticed he visited one person more than others.

He and Molly entered into an unconventional routine that skimmed the surface of an actual relationship. He visited the morgue at Bart's no less than three times a week, each time asking for body parts to take home and lingering just long enough to assess her surroundings. When he had a case on, he nosed his way into her flat at its conclusion. With no cases, the visits increased to the point that Mrs. Hudson began to ask where he was always off to.

It was easy with Molly, as he always knew it would be. He would bring takeaway for dinner and she let him sleep late in the mornings. She was perfectly content with silence when he needed it and more than happy to discuss cases and corpses when the mood struck. Their day solving cases together over a year ago should have been the biggest clue to him – they moved in perfect tandem with each other. The only thing missing was sex and even with that she had the patience of a saint.

Abstaining, he could focus and protect them. She understood that.

When nearly two months passed and London life ticked along as usual, unencumbered by anything more than typical criminal activity, Sherlock began to wonder if they'd all been had. Moriarty had not been one to tease and disappear. He had made sure Sherlock was always aware of his existence. There was a flaw in the pattern, something that didn't add up.

The most excitement he faced was the night he received the text from John letting him know that Mary had gone into labor. He froze at first, panicked at the thought that it was actually happening.

_What do I do? –SH_

_Come to the hospital if you want, but at this point it's just going to be waiting_

He met John in the waiting room and stood stock still while his friend paced around with a nervous smile on his face. Delirious, happy, and scared. He hadn't seen John like that since the night of the wedding.

"Is she still hell bent on going without drugs?" Sherlock asked.

"You know she is," John said, running his hands anxiously over the tops of his thighs and taking a deep breath. "Her doctor says it could be a while. You don't have to stay. Glad you're here, of course, very glad, but don't feel obligated."

"Calm down, John. It's all going to be fine," Sherlock said with a slight smile. "She's very healthy, strong. You've chosen an ideal hospital. Her doctor has far too much interest in her own appearance, trying to make up for being a homely child, but it doesn't seem to have an impact on her practice."

John grinned at him, planting his hands on his hips. Centered again, heart rate lowered from just moments ago. Sherlock's smile increased and he held out a hand.

"Congratulations, John," he said sincerely.

Reaching out to take his hand, John immediately pulled Sherlock in for a hug, holding on tightly. Though far more used to it than he ever had been, it still came as a slight shock to be shown that sort of affection. He was starting to understand the needs behind it – confirmation of their friendship, support, sharing in celebratory moments. He might not subscribe to it, but he understood it.

John released him and clapped him on the shoulder one more time before backing towards Mary's room.

"I'll let you know as soon as she arrives," he promised happily.

Sherlock nodded and watched him disappear around the corner. He stood in the cheerful waiting room for a few moments, gradually feeling out of place in his dark coat and clothes. Contemplating how long he would last waiting for news in the maternity ward, he finally decided to leave. He walked out into the bitter February night and hailed a cab, not even thinking twice before giving the driver Molly's address.

The moment she opened the door he knew he'd woken her. Her hair was coming loose from a haphazard ponytail and her eyes looked bleary, blinking up at him. She was wearing typically mismatched pyjamas – Kelly green yoga pants and an oversized pink thermal shirt with a small pattern of rosettes and leaves.

"Sherlock, everything alright?" she asked, trying to wake up and focus.

"Mary's gone into labor," he stated. She perked up immediately.

"What? That's – oh my god, that's fantastic," she gushed. "What the hell are you doing here, why aren't you at the hospital?"

"It's their moment, not mine," he said without any sort of resentment.

In a series of movements that he had grown extremely accustomed to, Molly stepped to the side and opened the door wider, smiled, and tilted her head towards the inside of her flat in invitation. His heart swelled and he walked into the space that had become as comforting as his own home. Shedding his coat, he made a beeline for his second favorite spot – the large, soft blue sofa that was the antithesis of all the furniture in 221B. Molly closed the door and trailed after him, taking her usual spot at one end of the sofa while he took the other, kicking his shoes off before reclining and stretching his legs out towards her. She tucked her legs up and folded them, leaning against the arm of the sofa to face him, and he gently pressed the bottoms of his feet against her shins. As he expected, her hands came to rest on the tops of his feet, her fingers tracing the prominent bone structure through his socks. He could practically see her mind reciting the different bones and muscles as her fingers moved, her eyes gazing off into nothing.

That was the reason he enjoyed sitting as they did. She would always let him curl against her in a more intimate manner if he wished (and he often did in her bed), but in this spot he preferred to face her, to see her. Molly had become very good at adjusting the tone in her voice, disguising her true thoughts. If he wasn't able to see her, he was often left unsure of what she really felt.

"What has you worried, Sherlock?" she asked.

"Not worried," he said, tucking his chin down. When he glanced up he was met with a look that clearly said 'You can't fool me.' He sighed. "Babies. They change things. More than marriage, wouldn't you say?"

Her brow drew down and she thoughtfully bit her bottom lip, preparing her answer. Processing and planning her word as always.

"They can, yes," she finally told him. "It changes people's priorities. You have another life you're responsible for that needs you to be so selfless."

Sherlock hummed his agreement, glad that Molly was validating what he had already concluded. She tilted her head and looked at him in concern. Far from annoying him, the look was one he paid attention to, waiting for her to speak.

"John will always be in your life," she said simply. He was a little surprised when she suddenly grinned at him. "Do you honestly think Mary won't want to kick him out of the house to get some peace and quiet every once in a while? She'll be shoving him off on you more often than you think."

"That sounds far too much like personal experience, Molly Hooper," Sherlock accused. Molly giggled lightly, leaning into the back of the couch and settling comfortably as she regarded him.

"I enjoy your company, Sherlock," she said. "But you can sometimes be a…large presence."

The corner of his mouth quirked up at her description of him and he shoved gently at her legs. She smiled back and blinked hazily at him before her eyes drooped closed. He stared at her for a moment, feeling the usual warmth and pleasantness that came with being in her company settle over him. Slightly disturbing, but not anything he wished to change. He realized he was becoming quite reliant on Molly, letting the circumstances of their mutual availability morph into a relationship he had never anticipated when he walked into her bedroom three long years before. Three years and he was still unsure with her in a way he never was with anyone else.

"Do you want children, Molly?" The question slipped quickly from his mouth, curiosity driving him.

She cracked her eyes open slightly and looked at him.

"Sometimes," she replied, quietly. "I used to think I wanted the whole package – husband, house, babies. I thought that's where happiness came from."

"And now?" he pressed when she stopped talking. She shrugged, closing her eyes again and settling further into the cushions of the sofa.

"Not so sure anymore," she said with a tone of finality.

Sherlock let her drift off, content to rest with her. A little before two in the morning his phone chimed and he looked at the text from John.

_Joanna Natalie Watson. Seven pounds, two ounces. Come meet your goddaughter :)_

The uncertainty he had been feeling dissipated and his mouth turned up in a smile. Gently pulling his legs away from Molly, he stood up from the sofa and walked over to her. He pulled the quilt from the back of the sofa and placed it over her as he leaned down to whisper in her ear.

"Healthy baby girl," he told her, placing a soft kiss against her temple. "I'll send them your good wishes. Sleep well, Molly."

She shifted slightly and hummed.

"Mmkay," she mumbled. "Bye, Sherlock. Love you."

His throat constricted and he halted. Love. It shouldn't have left him so stricken to hear, he'd known for a long time how she felt. Hell, he'd felt the same way for months. But to hear it out loud, so calmly, so naturally…

He quietly stepped away from her and let himself out of the flat. Barely conscious of how he managed to get to the hospital, he suddenly found himself in front of the entrance and walked purposefully inside. The maternity ward was no less active, but nighttime had subdued the energy of the people present. He found Mary's room quickly and hesitantly stepped inside. The sight that greeted him was one worthy of an advertisement for a happy family. Mary looked slightly worse for wear, but her expression was one of pure love as she looked down at the bundle of swaddling cloth and newborn baby in her arms. John sat next to her on the bed, one arm around her shoulders, the same look on his face as he gazed down at his daughter.

Sherlock cleared his throat slightly and they both looked up at him. John smiled and motioned him over. Mary adjusted her arms as he approached and held the baby so that he would have a good view. Pink, wrinkled face and two little hands that were making grasping gestures at the air. John's nose and mouth, quite clearly. Mary's heart-shaped face, inasmuch as was visible on a newborn. Eyes tightly shut.

He'd never been much for fussing over babies and the Watsons' little girl was hardly an exception. But he was able to register the immense pride and affection she caused and dammit all if it wasn't catching.

"She's perfect," he told them warmly. "Well done."

John laughed at the compliment, slipping his arm from around Mary and standing up.

"Now that this one's here, I can go fetch those chocolate biscuits for you," he said, kissing Mary on the forehead before looking at Sherlock with a smile. "It's all she's wanted since it was over."

They all shared a small laugh and John left the room. Sherlock glanced back at Mary.

"He's afraid to leave my side," she explained, shifting her hold on the baby to a more comfortable position. "Proud, protective father."

"I wouldn't expect any less," Sherlock replied, not at all surprised to hear of John's immediate loyalty.

Mary nodded and looked down. He sensed something shift in her energy.

"I never did properly thank you," she started haltingly, sniffing back the start of tears. Emotions and hormones flooding her body, he realized, and he considered stopping her to spare her the added feelings. "It's because of you that I have any of this at all."

"Not true," he corrected. "You had John well before I came back. You would have been spared a lot of hardship without me."

"It's better with the truth out," she said quickly. "You spared me from a fate far worse than a pissed off husband. And I'm very grateful for that, Sherlock."

He could think of nothing else to do other than offer her a sincere smile. He was used to the accolades and thank you's from the cases he solved, but Mary's heartfelt gratitude struck a different chord.

They both checked their emotions as they heard John come back into the room, a plate of biscuits in his hand and the same proud grin on his face.

"Can't stop smiling," he said. "Tried, but nothing for it, seems to be stuck there."

"Try harder, it's nauseating," Sherlock drawled teasingly.

"It really is, it's sickening," Mary joined in with a wrinkle in her nose before she smiled at her husband and handed the baby over to him, reaching gratefully for the biscuits.

* * *

Two days later, the Watsons were settled at home and opened their house for an afternoon of visitors to see the baby. Molly had asked Sherlock to join her once she had finished her shift at Bart's, eager to see the new family. He had agreed, but not without hesitation. The nagging little voice in his head that still sounded suspiciously like John became louder, accusing him of avoiding her. They shared a quiet cab ride to the house and if she sensed anything amiss she did not say a word. Not that he would have had any answers for her if she had confronted him.

He loved her. It made her a target. Pushing it down was the sensible thing to do in light of Moriarty. She loved him and made it very clear in a variety of ways. It made it harder to conceal his own feelings, then he was back to the beginning trying to avoid making her a target.

Despite his efforts to maintain a neutral demeanor, he was officially on edge by the time they arrived at John and Mary's. The door was halfway open with a sign that read 'Please come in!' in cheerful handwriting and they let themselves in. John and Mary greeted them in the lounge, all smiles and hugs.

"She's gorgeous," Molly said with a little sigh as she looked at Joanna.

"She looks just like a little Watson," Mary cooed with a loving smile.

Sherlock held back an eye roll and turned to inspect the pictures on the mantle.

"She's got her mother's eyes, though, don't you think, Molly?" John added.

"She's a newborn infant, she looks like every other newborn there ever was -" Sherlock's comment stopped short when he turned and saw that the baby had been placed in Molly's arms. She was swaying gently with the little bundle, smiling down into Joanna's pink face with a look of pure adoration. She was, in short, a natural. He pretended not to understand why the sight sent a bit of heat through his neck.

"I do hope you changed from your work clothes before coming here, Molly."

Judging by the three aghast faces staring at him, those were indeed a poor choice of words for the moment. Attempting to play it off as a joke, Sherlock gave a tight lipped smile and crossed the room to sit in John's armchair while the others continued to fawn over the newborn. After several minutes, the door opened and a few of the nurses from John's practice were ushered in, bearing Tupperware filled with chicken dinners and soups and deserts. The group went into the kitchen and suddenly he was alone with Molly and a baby. She made her way over to him, still subconsciously rocking back and forth slightly and patting Joanna's tiny form gently. The smile she was trying to hold back was far too obvious.

"Why do they bring food?" he asked. "Did the Watsons suddenly become incapable of cooking?"

"Yes, actually," Molly said. "Between feedings and changings and being exhausted…cooking is like climbing Mt. Everest for new parents."

He narrowed his eyes at her, letting her know exactly what he thought of that analogy. Molly let a puff of air out of her nose, a humoring laugh that told him she was hardly affected by his judgment. Looking down at his shoes, he conceded the round of silent sparring to her.

"Do you want to hold her?"

His eyes shot up to hers.

"What for?"

"Who put the wind up your pants today?" she asked with an accusatory look.

Choosing not to answer, he looked moodily away from the sight of her cradling the infant, noting that the child had fallen asleep in her arms. Molly started to murmur silly little things to her as she slept and he pretended not to listen until the others came back into the room. Mary happily took her child back while John plopped down into the armchair opposite Sherlock.

"Come up and see the nursery," Mary said to the ladies in the room. "John did a wonderful job."

Molly glanced at Sherlock and shrugged self-consciously as she followed the group, not used to being a part of this womanly world. He considered how the two women gravitated towards the social norms of the circumstances, but neither completely fit the roles. Mary, so happy to have a semblance of a normal life after years of living on the fringe of the law. Molly, questioning her long held desires for the suburban dream. With John and himself in the picture, it would never be completely ordinary.

When they had been left alone, he looked over at John. His friend ran a tired hand over his face and shook his head, working some energy back into his system.

"You may have been good practice, but at least you let me sleep through most nights," John said, only half teasing.

Sherlock's lip quirked up and he gave a small huff of laughter. He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair, waiting for John to let out whatever was clearly on his mind.

"What's going on with you two?"

"You two who?" Sherlock shot back. John narrowed his gaze on him.

"You know exactly who, don't play dumb," he said firmly. "There are about a hundred reasons why you don't deserve that woman, but for some reason she is still with you to the bitter end. So…what's been happening?"

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up and he looked around in mock confusion.

"I'm sorry, I think you have me confused with someone who does relationships," he said irritably.

"Don't you?" John challenged, chin tilting down and eyebrows rising.

"Janine hardly counts -"

"Not Janine, you berk," John huffed, pointing firmly in the direction his wife had gone. "Mary told me you used to use Molly's spare room as a bolt hole."

"And?"

"Molly doesn't have a spare room, Sherlock," John said with a satisfied smirk. "I've been there."

Sherlock felt a flash of heat in his neck – again. The voice in his head had decided to come to life. No matter the image he endeavored to present, there was no way to spin the information in his favor. He either admitted to sharing her bed, or he looked like a complete arse for appearing to take over her bedroom and forcing her onto the sofa.

"Mycroft didn't even know you went there to hide out," John emphasized with a pointed look. "_Mycroft._"

"All right, fine, yes, I use her place from time to time," Sherlock said quickly.

"Oh, so you still go there?"

"What?"

"You said use. Not used," John said with an utterly smug smile. "Certainly explains why you disappear from Baker Street for entire nights, according to Mrs. Hudson."

"When did you trade places with a thirteen year old schoolgirl, has it really been so long since we've seen each other?" Sherlock quipped crossly, affecting a cheerful, light voice as he went on. "Ooh, did you hold hands and snog at the cinema? Sneaked into her bedroom when her mum wasn't looking? Rubbish."

His attempt to annoy John failed spectacularly as he only appeared increasingly entertained by the whole thing. A few moments passed while John looked at him with a ridiculous grin plastered on his face.

"Well," he said curiously. "Did you?"

"Oh shut up, you've obviously lost your mind since your wife had a baby."

"I am going to take your avoidance on the matter to be a confirmation," John decided, standing up. "Now if you don't mind, I am going to go help my lovely wife with our baby girl for a moment so she can show off my shoddy craftsmanship. Keep yourself entertained, yeah?"

Sherlock watched him walk out of the room and found his limbs tingling with irritation. He needed a distraction – if only there was a good murder on.


End file.
